The Lancaster Rule - The Lancaster Trilogy Vol. I

by T. K. Toppin

  Simon moved into John’s line of sight, raising a red brow. A mixture of bother and mischief touched his face as he regarded his long-time friend. Simon sighed loudly, not needing to speak. They’d known each other long enough, had been through enough, that words weren’t necessary sometimes.

  John drew his brows together in displeasure. “Stop that.” Finally he turned to Simon. “Fine, I’m going.”

  “Home or in there?”

  “Guess.”

  Pushing past his friend, John headed for the detention cell. The glass door slid open and he stepped in. The young woman jerked with obvious shock. Her jaw dropped, as if seeing the World President of the United Europe and Americas was surprising. A common reaction. She scrambled to her feet and backed up against the wall. The ledge she’d been sitting on knocked the backs of her knees, making her flop ungracefully down again. With a hoarse yelp, she straightened and regained her footing.

  John stared, lifting a brow. Yes, she really doesn’t look like your typical terrorist.

  She stared back, her eyes tracing his face. The first shadows of doubt brushed her features. John understood her confusion; it was the same with most people who met him for the first time. Seeing John Lancaster in person was quite different from the televised images, in which he projected a razor-sharp persona, clean and electronically enhanced with a smooth but pasty skin to set off his dark-haired, brooding nature. In real life, however, John was pale, and today he had the mottled shadow of evening stubble along his strong jaw line, which he held tight.

  “Josephine Bettencourt.” John pitched his voice low, calm, cold, knowing it would send chills down her back. He’d practiced it to perfection. Knowing how to speak with tone and pitch just right, he didn’t need to add any emotion to get what he wanted. He merely spoke her name, and the woman shivered visibly. John let a small smile tweak one corner of his mouth. Turning his head, he kept his eyes on her. “I’ve never met a ghost before. Let alone someone who doesn’t exist.”

  She dropped her eyes, swallowed, inhaled, and squeezed her arms about her body tighter.

  He supposed she was beautiful, in a plain sort of way that appealed to him. Natural. Not enhanced, like so many women chose to be these days. Her sharp, vivid green eyes unnerved him the most—real again, according to her police file. They were not a flat, pale green, or a muted bottle green, but a vibrant, transparent emerald with streaks of bright yellow that seemed to invite you to stare closely. Mesmerizing. If only they weren’t so wide and open, beguiling, dominating her face. To be honest, she was too skinny, too tall and…too clumsy. And clumsy wasn’t a term associated with terrorists. Not in his experience, at least. Though it could also be attributed to fright, but fear wasn’t something terrorists had much of either. Even newly-minted terrorists held some measure of cold hardness at their core.

  In his mind, John replayed the surveillance recording from her arrival. After disembarking the airlift, she had stumbled over her own feet, and then once more when turning a corner. And what he saw now raised many questions. She was innocent, naïve, awkward. A fish out of water. Yet she’d been found in the company of a known terrorist, a murdering extremist who’d just blown up the entire second storey of an office building. The office building where his cousin had worked. And died.

  He ground his teeth and paced the small room.

  Bettencourt appeared to relax and mimicked him, a slow shuffle, moving in the other direction until she pressed against the flat, ledge-free wall. A trembling breath came out, her shoulders dropped a little. She tipped her head down and continued to cling tightly to herself.

  John watched her from the corner of his eye. She wore a pair of loose black trousers, men’s, obviously too big, since they barely hung on her skinny hips. Her sweater, on the other hand, seemed too small. It was mottled, russet-colored, long-sleeved, and buttoned up the front, stopping just below her bellybutton. She wore manky running shoes that were far too big; at least the edges of her pants hid most of them. No wonder she was so clumsy.

  A glint caught his eye. A fine silver chain gleamed, barely visible under the neckline of her shirt. No doubt precious and very personal, he thought. How on earth did the London police miss that?

  “Wellesley.”

  Her head jerked up. “Is he here?”

  Keeping his face expressionless, John curled his mouth into a one-sided smile, knowing it exposed some of his teeth. Another trick he’d learned from his father to make people nervous. He hissed in a slow breath for effect, and had the pleasure of watching her throat contract with a swallow. “Very interesting. Did he give you that necklace, then?”

  Her hand flew to her neck, and she nodded immediately. An honest action, he noted. Hmm…

  “Is he here? Did the police in London contact him?”

  “What is your relationship with him?”

  Josie snapped back. “Jesus, don’t you people fucking speak to each other? I’ve told you already.”

  Taken aback by the sudden outburst—the vulgarity of it—John turned his whole body to face her. He raised his head for the first time since entering the room, and regarded her with interest. He wanted to grin madly. Such emotion! Changing so swiftly, like flipping a switch. This woman was intriguing indeed.

  John kept his voice calm and level. “He is being questioned.”

  “He’s here, then?” Josie pushed off the wall and took a small step forward.

  John saw a pulse beating rapidly at her neck, as if in anticipation.

  “Is he here? Please, tell me?”

  He watched as a series of emotions crossed her face. She bit her lip, and the speed of her breathing increased. Her eyes shifted, as if consulting some inner debate. Then she spoke softly in a tone filled with dread.

  “Shit-shit-shit.”

  In a quick blur of movement, John leapt from where he stood, a good two meters away, and slammed a hand against the wall—close enough to the side of her face that she flinched from the burst of air and loud clap by her ear. She yelped in surprise, blinking rapidly—frozen. He hadn’t meant to bring himself so close, but he wanted, out of curiosity, to look at her eyes. Yes, marigold yellow, those streaks were, he mused. He also noted the small abrasion on her bottom lip, and cocked a brow.

  John’s face was centimeters from hers. He presented her with a snarl. She stared back, horror flooding her eyes, and swallowed hard. Good. She was properly frightened now.

  “Three people died this morning,” he said through gritted teeth. “One of them, my cousin.”

  “Oh, fuck. I…I…” She shook her head with the minimum of movements, obviously fearing his hand still pressed against the wall.

  His other hand remained behind his back, clenched tight, resisting the urge to hit something. He’d never purposely hit a woman unless it was to save himself, and he wasn’t planning on starting, either. Centuries-old tradition and conditioning had ingrained that into him. But by God, he wanted to hit her now. The rage he’d held in check since learning of his cousin’s death was all but bursting. The only possible lead to those responsible was standing right before him. Someone had to face his anger.

  “Who are you?” John could smell her fear; she trembled with it, a sharp, tangy smell. He stared into her eyes, hoping to see the answers he sought. Instead, all he saw was abject terror. Something wasn’t right. Could she be telling the truth, and had nothing to do with the bombing? That she was an innocent bystander, out shopping with a friend, and knew nothing about the friend’s intentions?

  “What is your relationship with Lorcan Wellesley?”

  “I said before, he’s my friend,” Josie replied softly.

  John whirled away from her with an exclamation of impatience. He returned to his corner to brood.

  * * *

  Simon shook his head. Weariness made him groan as he watched his friend and the woman. For thirty minutes they had sparred, a test of wills; each time John asked a question, the answer was either silence or that she didn’t know. John
was visibly frustrated. So was Simon. The girl held back something; even a child could see that. But what?

  She answered truthfully about Wellesley, and Wellesley had confirmed some parts.

  Simon tapped an index finger against his pursed lips. Wellesley was suspected of anti-government activities. Petty stuff, nothing that linked him to anything. Could it be possible he’d had nothing to do with this? Did Marillo work alone? But it wasn’t like her; she only ever blew things up for money, and Wellesley had lots of it.

  Simon and John had been pursuing Gianni Marillo, better known as Gina Mancuso, for almost ten years, even before John took over as World President. They had headed an anti-terrorist operation John’s father set up specifically to stop organizations and groups aimed at bringing down the government from popping up. They’d lost Mancuso three years ago after a series of gruesome bombings, the worst a school where sixty children died. The cause and purpose of that were still unknown, except that one student, just one, was the son of the minister of international trade in Prague, who had been under investigation for embezzling stock shares to purchase weapons.

  Who had been her employer? A mystery.

  And now, up pops Mancuso in London, dead as a doornail with a hole in her chest, after blowing up a shipping and freight building.

  Simon’s chest throbbed at the thought. Three dead. One of them John’s cousin, Lora. Sweet girl…

  And what a curious situation. Wellesley was a structural engineer, one the Lancaster government hired on occasion for certain projects. He was legitimate and brilliant at his work, with a long list of credits to his name. And at this very moment, another project was contracted to Wellesley. Coincidence? Convenience? Still, way too obvious if Wellesley had any part in the bombing. Why would he even have his name so closely linked to this project if he had plans to blow up a building? No one was that foolish. Unless it was all planned to look that way. Attack in plain sight.

  Simon reflected on his interview with Wellesley, conducted earlier in the cell next door to the one Bettencourt and John now occupied. The man had seemed genuinely tormented and worried over the girl. There were some emotions, Simon knew, that were difficult to replicate, care being one of them. Wellesley had repeatedly asked about her welfare, and insisted she was in a very delicate mental state. He’d claimed she was somewhat amnesiac, recovering from some serious accident. Now that had sounded like a fabrication. He’d further maintained that Bettencourt was a friend to the family, but that he didn’t know her full history other than that she was the daughter of his late mother’s friend, who was once part of some peace movement. Most had been drifters and addicts that he knew nothing about.

  And as for Mancuso, Wellesley raged with fury, insisting he didn’t know about her or her violent history. His behavior and his answers seemed convincing enough, but, Simon thought with suspicion, Wellesley could’ve inherited his mother’s natural flair for acting.

  The interview with Wellesley had lasted two hours. John had observed it, as Simon now watched him. They’d had to let Wellesley go; suspicion alone couldn’t hold him, nor could they risk keeping him any longer. All to do with image, Simon groaned to himself.

  Since John had taken over the helm, he had insisted the Lancaster government try their best to be fair and just. The progress of breaking down old habits and making improvements to laws, old fears, and hopefully, new lifestyles, was slow. An uphill struggle, to say the least, but they were getting there. Despite Simon’s natural instincts to scour the world until all the terrorists dropped like dead flies, he knew well enough the power of talk and speculation. Holding a man like Wellesley any longer than necessary was bound to start rumors and questions regarding Lancaster’s power, which was always under suspicion. And the independent media had senses keener than a canine. That wasn’t the image they hoped to project. Prisoners, guilty or not, had rights too. At least during grandfather Lancaster’s day, things were more clear-cut.

  Wellesley had insisted on seeing Bettencourt, threatening to raise an almighty stink if he was denied. They’d allowed him a quick glimpse through the glass, a mere ten seconds, before he was sent on his way. Looking greatly relieved at having seen her, that she was still in one piece, Wellesley left without fuss.

  But it still didn’t solve the mystery of Bettencourt.

  Who was she?

  And why had Wellesley not summoned a slew of legal representatives with a snap of his wealthy fingers? Wellesley was well into the multi-millionaire club; not quite one of the big boys, but definitely upper-middle, with a well-respected family history.

  What was Wellesley afraid of that would be revealed by the attention caused by Bettencourt’s arrest? A man who had nothing to hide wouldn’t think twice about calling his lawyers.

  Interesting.

  This called for further investigation indeed.

  When John emerged, red and bristling with agitation, he stormed by, leaving Simon to stare after him. Bettencourt sat slumped over on her knees, crying.

  Poor girl…

  Chapter 15

  Happy fucking birthday.

  I seemed unable to do anything else other than feel sorry for myself. I’d cried and cried, hugging my knees and burying my face between them. I’d told John Lancaster everything I dared to reveal about myself. Why the hell was he asking all the questions anyway? Even to me, my explanations had sounded weak, pathetic, and nothing but a pack of lies.

  And he scared the shit out of me. The memory of his face sent a shiver lancing through my body.

  He was so not like the person I’d seen on TV, sharp and clean cut. Manicured. The real John Lancaster had more depth. His face was heart-shaped in a very masculine way, especially the strong brow line and the thick black eyebrows that seemed to convey his varying thoughts by the tiny movements they made. They seemed permanently knitted together, furrowing the spot between them into a deep line. Lancaster had a short nose, straight, sharp and a little upturned, like a kid’s, if it wasn’t for the strong rise of cheekbones and sunken cheeks that drew your eyes straight to his expressive mouth. He had a way of clamping his lips into a tight line, and when he spoke, they moved almost reluctantly, like he wasn’t used to talking, or just didn’t want to. When his lips relaxed, in the brief moments they unclenched, they were full, forming a mouth that was small, neat and as delicate as a Renoir portrait. His entire face was an oxymoron.

  But his eyes frightened me the most. Wide and large, dark and pitted deep in his face, they had glowered at me in silent fury, watching my every move and expression with that belligerent rudeness of someone used to getting their own way. It was like he could feel, hear, and taste with his eyes, like how a snake did with its tongue. Even more frightening was how he held his head, slightly bowed, as if keeping his thoughts to himself. Like a predator, still and cold-hearted, he watched with only his eyes shifting.

  At one point, he had been so close I’d smelled his cologne, and coffee on his breath. His eyes had bored right into mine with such menace; I even saw the tiny red capillaries in the corners swelling as if to burst. And his eyes were hazel, not black like a snake’s as I first thought. Didn’t matter, they were still scary. And that voice, his tone. Cold, deliberate, secretive. His accent was an odd mixture, predominantly British, but with something else. Like he’d lived in many places and soaked up accents like a sponge.

  Lancaster kept his hair clipped short, a brownish-black, glossy, and it formed a small widow’s peak at his forehead. I judged him to be at least six-foot-two, slender but muscular along shoulders and chest. He moved in a lithe, fluid way, which only sharpened his predatory look. If he’d started growling low like a panther, I wouldn’t have been surprised. But the way he moved, it seemed he held some maniacal, elemental force in check. I couldn’t decide which image of him was scarier, the media-spewed ones, or the one I’d just met, because the real version looked like he could breath fire.

  The memory made me shudder again. I hugged my knees harder.

&nbs
p; Oh crap-hole! What had I gotten myself into? I couldn’t stay out of trouble to save my life.

  Lorcan. I missed him. I missed home.

  And I missed my real home.

  In misery, my mind drifted back and forth between the centuries, but always came back to the present, to Lorcan. I clutched the pendant like a lifeline, hoping the moment would come when Lorcan stepped through that door and took me away from this hellish nightmare. He would save me.

  Lancaster had kept on asking the same question over and over until I almost blurted out the entire truth. I’d watched enough movies to figure out his interrogation tactics. He was trying to wear me down into confessing. But if he hoped to hear a confession about the bombing, he’d get none. I hadn’t a clue regarding that.

  At some point, the lights were dimmed. At least it wasn’t so bright and, on cue, my eyes went dry and achy. I closed them, drowsiness pressed down, and my limbs grew heavy.

  Waiting. Always waiting.

  I lowered onto my side and tried to get comfortable on the narrow ledge. It was unrelentingly hard, but I was too tired to care. I was done for, what were a few more bruises to add to my pasty old corpse anyway? Closing my eyes, I fell immediately to sleep.

  * * *

  I awoke with a start.

  Fucking Ari again. My dreams were starting to get annoying. But now, fully consciousness, I forgot completely what it was about, only that Ari’s image was in my mind. The way his sandy hair vibrated when he laughed, especially when he teased me and tried not to look guilty.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I realized I had to pee. Badly.

  Peeling myself off the ledge, I shuffled to the glass door and pounded on it.

  And waited.

  I pounded again, harder.

  Still nothing.

  “I have to use the bathroom!” I shouted, glaring at the white wall before me. “Did you hear me? I have to pee!”

  Nothing.

  I let out a sigh. Clutching my mid-section, I turned away, gritting my teeth. No way was I going to drop my pants and pee on the floor, even if that did sound very satisfying.